Tuesday, 02 September 2003 | Transplant

It couldn't have weighed more than two pounds, but it felt quite powerful in my hands as it thrashed around with all its strength, like a fish on land. In our struggle, one of us had knocked over a big plastic container of water, which moved over the dirty floor and slowly seeped into the cloth of my handbag and camera bag. I could feel the tiny creature's fangs and claws in my flesh, but I refused to loosen my grip, as I verbally instructed the man and the woman how to best open the carrier so that I could put it inside.

"You're bleeding," someone said, and I looked down at my empty hands, which were leaking a dark, thick red in the places my skin had been pierced. There was a messy-looking gash across my left wrist, evidence that the wise kitten had tried to kill me. The fluttering woman gave me a crumpled bunch of paper towels so that I could clean myself up. Then she got out a remarkably dirty bottle of peroxide and poured it over my wounds as I held my hands over the trash can.

The deli on the corner of my block is one of a thousand like it. It's long and narrow with anorexic aisles that can accommodate one person at a time. It serves as something of an emergency grocery store, crammed with dusty cereal boxes and soup cans that are stacked as high as the ceiling, with no square inch going to waste. People hang out there, on the black- and gray-checkered floor tiles at the front of the store, watching the TV that's singing in Spanish, talking to the people who work the counter. Just outside of the front door, on the corner, there's always a tough-looking pack of guys who are secretly kind and polite if you ever need to talk to them. Both inside and out are cats: lazy, shy, skinny, friendly, pregnant, young. They walk through the propped-open door at will, lick at cans of cheap cat food, exterminate mice, rub themselves against the legs of strangers, and reproduce.

Several months ago, I went to the deli with Elizabeth, in hopes of convincing the owner to let us take his cats to have them fixed. We promised to bring them back, but he didn't trust us, and he argued that the store needed cats, and that "if you 'fix' all the cats, there will be no cats anymore." We left without any cats.

It's post-kitten birthing season now, and the deli shows it; most of its full-grown cats have disappeared and have been replaced with 5-week-old versions. Sometimes they're easy to overlook, sitting among the non-perishables and curled up in empty boxes. Recently I found one in a box that had been taped shut, apparently so it wouldn't escape onto the street. (We played the game "Marco Polo," it, yelling and yelling, until I found it.)

It was a sick kitten that inspired me to cage the kittens and carry them to a rescue service. It was friendly and orange, it had an infection in both eyes, it hosted a party of fleas, and it wheezed when it breathed. I'd gone by to ask permission the day before, and the owner shrugged and said, "Take as many as you want." I brought the carrier the next day and negotiated with the manager who originally told me I couldn't take them, but who eventually offered to help me.

Even though she was considerably older than me, her nickname for me was "Mommy," as in, "Here's a paper towel for you, Mommy," "Do you want me to pour more peroxide on, Mommy?" and "I'm glad you're going to help the sick one, Mommy." It was her idea to put the sick one in a box by itself, and to poke holes in the sides so that it could breathe. She stood behind the counter and stabbed the cardboard fourteen times.

With two kitten siblings in a carrier, a box containing a sick kitten, a camera bag, and a handbag, I made my way to the clinic in Manhattan. The kittens were quiet, for the most part, although whenever I made eye contact with the deadly one, it hissed at me. Elizabeth was waiting for me when I arrived, and immediately took the kittens off my hands and placed them in their new, temporary homes, in a glass and wooden tic-tac-toe board that resembled Hollywood Squares. I noticed that some cats had a single round green sticker on their square; Elizabeth explained that green dots indicated which cats were mean. I suggested that she put five green dots on the devil cat I'd just brought her.

I'm told that they will eventually have homes, and that, until then, I can come by and get hissed at whenever I want.

...

I performed my sonnet on Saturday, just after transporting the kittens. Me, trying to take a picture of the Brooklyn Bridge, annoyed at the sky as it spit back at me, fourteen lines. I'm told it went well, and it felt like it did, but I'm nervous about seeing myself on camera. Until I see the tape, I can at least pretend it went well. Being in front of the camera is much scarier than being behind it.

...

He left a note at my old house in Raleigh, apparently. It's odd how significant the smallest contact is, when you're used to having no contact at all.